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The coffee shop isn’t fancy, but it’s warm, the kind of place where people linger over second cups and conversation drifts between the hum of the espresso machine. You hadn’t meant to stay this long. Really, you hadn’t. A quick drink, that was the plan - something simple, no pressure, an easy excuse to leave if the conversation fell flat.
Except the conversation didn’t fall flat. Not even close.
Somehow, the casual, get-to-know-you coffee turned into an hour, then two. Now, your mug sits empty, fingers curled loosely around it like letting go might break the spell. Between you, the remnants of a shared slice of cake, mostly crumbs, except for the bits of chocolate Darren had stolen from your plate.
“I still can’t believe you picked all the chocolate off your side of the cake,” Darren says, shaking his head. “That’s the best part.”
You roll your eyes, wiping a crumb off your thumb. “The best part is the sponge. The chocolate just gets in the way.”
“That’s actually offensive.” He leans back in his chair, one arm slung lazily over the backrest, crossing his legs like this is a real debate. “Who orders chocolate cake and doesn’t want the chocolate?”
You shrug, smirking. “Worked out well for you, didn’t it?”
It had. At some point, without really thinking, you’d nudged your plate toward him, letting him steal the bits you didn’t want. The kind of quiet, unspoken give-and-take that usually takes more than one date to settle into.
Darren watches you for a second, something softer in his expression now. “Yeah,” he says, quieter this time. “Guess it did.”
That’s the thing about him—he makes it easy. Too easy. He listens like he actually wants to hear what you have to say, not just like he’s waiting for his turn. And he’s funny, too, dry and self-deprecating in a way that makes you laugh more than you should. That should probably be a red flag.
You clear your throat, shifting in your seat. This is why you don’t do this. Not with men like him. Men whose lives exist on the road, whose schedules are dictated by flights and tournaments and time zones. You’ve seen it before. You know exactly how it goes.
And yet, you’re still here.
It’s funny - if you’d been watching this scene play out from the outside, you’d have assumed you were both stalling. A couple lingering too long over empty cups, fingers playing absently with the sugar packets left on the table, neither quite willing to make the first move toward leaving.
And maybe you are stalling.
But it doesn’t feel like that. It just feels easy.
“Alright,” Darren says, stretching his arms above his head before letting them drop lazily over the back of his chair. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
You quirk a brow. “You don’t know much about me at all, Cahill. You could ask literally anything, and the odds are good it’ll be something you don’t know.”
“Fair point.” He grins, tipping his chair back onto two legs for a moment before letting it settle again. “Alright, then. Tell me something unexpected.”
You pretend to consider. “I bite the chocolate off Maltesers before eating the inside.”
Darren makes a face, mock horror. “Okay, first the chocolate cake thing, now this? You’ve got a vendetta against chocolate, don’t you?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “I like chocolate! I just like the textures separate. It’s better that way.”
“Blasphemy,” he mutters, shaking his head. Then, as if this is a genuine dealbreaker: “I don’t know if this is gonna work out.”
You smirk, dragging your spoon through the last smear of icing on the plate. “Maybe not.”
He watches you for a moment, amusement giving way to something quieter. “Your turn.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“To ask me something,” he clarifies. “Seems only fair.”
You hesitate. There are plenty of things you could ask. Light, easy things. The kind of questions you can answer without giving anything real away. But instead, before you can stop yourself…
“Do you ever get tired of it?”
Darren tilts his head. “Of what?”
“The travel,” you say. “The never-staying-in-one-place thing.”
Something flickers in his expression, gone before you can place it. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, fingers loosely linked. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “Sometimes.”
You hadn’t expected him to be honest. You nod, tracing the rim of your coffee cup with one fingertip. “Must be hard to have a life outside of it.”
“Sometimes,” he says again, watching you. Then, after a pause- “But it’s not impossible.”
There’s something about the way he says it, quiet and certain, like it’s a challenge. Like he’s wondering if you’ll take the bait.
You don’t. Not yet.
Instead, you sit back in your chair, forcing a smile. “Good thing you’ve got a life full of stolen cake to balance it all out.”
Darren huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’ll never let that go, will you?”
You shrug, teasing. “Maybe not.”
He watches you again, his eyes sharp, thoughtful. Then he exhales, nodding once, like he’s made some kind of internal decision. “Alright,” he says. “Guess I’ll just have to convince you to stick around long enough to try something you won’t let go of.”
And that – that - is when you feel it shift.
The air changes. The teasing edge is still there, but underneath it is something else. Something warmer, heavier. The weight of something just beginning.
The coffee shop has mostly emptied now, the evening creeping in through the windows, turning the edges of the world golden. It’s only once you step outside that you realize how much time has passed. The evening has crept in, turning the edges of the world golden, the air crisp and cool against your skin. The parking lot isn’t far, but you walk slower than necessary, neither of you in a rush to close the distance.
It should be awkward, this in-between moment, but it isn’t. Darren’s hands are shoved into his pockets, his presence warm beside you, steady. He glances over. “Thinking about running?” he asks, teasing, but there’s something underneath it, something quieter.
You huff a quiet laugh, shoving your hands deeper into your jacket. “Thinking about how this is probably a terrible idea.”
Darren hums, considering. “Could be.” He slows to a stop beside your car, turning to face you fully. “But you’re still here.”
And just like that, the pull between you tightens.
His gaze flickers to your mouth, then back up again, searching, waiting. He takes a breath like he’s still deciding, even though you both know the decision was made the moment you lingered.
“I should probably just kiss you now, shouldn’t I?” he murmurs.
Your lips twitch. “Probably.”
The first brush of his lips is tentative, testing, but the moment you sigh against his mouth, something in him shifts. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he deepens the kiss, slow at first, then not at all. Heat blooms in your chest, and you press closer, fingers curling in the fabric of his jacket. It’s unexpected, the way he kisses you like he means it, like he can’t help himself. Like if he doesn’t, he’ll regret it forever.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting lightly against yours, you’re both breathing harder than you should be. He laughs, low and almost breathless.
“Well,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing absently along your jaw. “Now I definitely want a second date.”